Rotting Underpants

Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.

Marsha Norman

It’s all a big rush to be prepared for the big kick off tomorrow. I spent last night tweaking my plot and making sure the various strands converged at the same critical point (they don’t, so that’s a worry) and sticking character notes into my Big Book of Ideas.

I was supposed (according to my wife) to be applying for a new job. There’s nothing wrong with the one I’ve got. So when I woke her up in the middle of the night with my cutting and sticking she yelled “PRIORITIES” at me in a loud voice. – although she claims to have no recollection of this, she appears to be sleep-shouting at me now (just when I thought her eyes closing was blissful respite).

 I’m being mean, she’s lovely really.

 But my priority, at least for the next month, will be getting down at least 50,000 words in the name of art. Kind people have already donated over £500 to Wigan hospice, so if this isn’t the kick in the pants that I need then nothing is.

 Everything else can rot. I’ll get up in the morning, pull on my crusty thundercrackers (if they’re not crusty by week three then I’m doing something wrong) shuffle to work to be exploited by The Man, and then get home and stumble into the growing pile of detritus in front of my PC to try and bang out the requisite number of words.

 To be honest I’m shitting my pants, but I’ve got myself a new shiny memory stick to carry everywhere with me so that (theoretically) I can write at every available opportunity.

 My thundercrackers are crusty already……


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